


Praise and Ordnance

by voleuse



Category: Luke Cage (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:13:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21837277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: He says he does what he does sometimes because the Devil gets in like water through his weak places.Comanche thinks Shades isn't as much of a mystery as he believes.
Relationships: Shades Alvarez/Darius "Comanche" Jones
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Praise and Ordnance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pathotrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathotrix/gifts).



> Set mostly early on in _Luke Cage_ S2, but includes spoilers for the entire season.

_i. the district renders toxic_

Comanche's been out of Seagate less than a week, and he still blinks at the sunshine when he strides out of his new apartment building. Shades is standing on the curb, leaning against some swole car with tinted windows and bulletproof doors. Comanche throws some swagger into his step, even as he's conscious of the gulf between his old threads and the thousand-dollar suit Shades must be wearing.

But when he gets into arms' distance, Shades laughs like they're sixteen again, reaching out and pulling Comanche into a rough hug, arms sliding over shoulders and Shades smells like smoke and rum and soap. "Che," Shades breathes out. "You're looking good."

"Looking free." Comanche leans back, and suddenly the embrace is over, and he grins wide because that's what he always does. "Good behavior pays you pretty damn well," he observes. "What the hell you been up to, man?"

Shades laughs, then steps aside and opens the passenger-side door of the car, all formal and shit. "Lots to cover with you, man." Comanche slides into the car, his hands feeling rough against the butter-soft leather. Shades walks around the front of the car, settles himself into the driver's seat. "That work I got you, the steady gig, it's all ready." He looks over at Comanche, and seems, just for a second, unsure. "If you want it. Right now, I mean."

The sunshine streams through the window, and Comanche reaches out for a moment, clasps his hand over Shades's on the gearshift. "I'll go wherever with you, man," he affirms. "But first, let's get me a burger and beer."

_ii. every time God laughs at this_

_Seagate wasn't anything Comanche hadn't expected, except for the grinding, unending sameness of every day. The food was the same, the routine was the same. Even the other inmates that Rackham had him and Shades "audition" for the fights started to blend together, the same expressions of defiance, fear, then weary acceptance they all cycled through. No good music, no real seasoning in the food, no real smiles to break the endless sea of smirks._

_Sometimes, though, at night, he'd be just shootin' shit with Shades, remembering what all they'd gotten up to as kids, and nonsense posing that happened in the yard that afternoon. What they might do, once they got out of Seagate, whenever that would be._

_And when the laughter died down, and Comanche's observations trailed off, same as Shades's plans within plans, they'd just be leaning against the wall next to each other, the bunk mattress thin enough for them to feel the wire frame beneath._

_And Comanche would look at Shades, and Shades would let out a long breath, an exhale that ended when their mouths collided._

_They'd done this before, furtively, as teenagers, on occasion. Long nights and longer conversations, taking a turn into clothes yanked aside, palms gliding sweaty against each other. Nothing that happened in daylight, nothing they talked about after._

_At Seagate, though, it was something else. It was them, together, because they had each other's backs and nobody else's. They had every morning, and every afternoon, and every night._

_They had this. Comanche eventually stopped being surprised by how much knowing that, feeling that, settled something in him._

_iii. a bomb in the subway_

Mariah has some sort of charity gala; some event formal enough that Shades, even if he wouldn't let on, would feel out of place. (Not that Shades was ever intimidated by anyone or any situation, but Mariah seemed to insist on _a certain dignity_ sometimes, and Shades had no chill when it came to rich folks throwing disrespect.)

So they chill at the club--Comanche has yet to figure out what arrangements and shit Shades has with Mariah--and order up the _good_ bottles of whiskey, because they can roll, and Comanche can't help but smile as he watches Shades shed the pose he holds with everyone else but him.

Comanche spins the glass between his hands, watching as Shades traverses Mariah's office like it was his own, the lights from the club dappling his skin. "This looks good on you, man," Comanche notes. "Like you was meant for the lifestyle."

Shades scoffs at him, lands on the chair opposite, limbs loose and eyes filled with laughter. "I'm telling you, Che, we got it better here than we ever would have been with Diamondback."

"Yeah," Comanche says. "He was that crazy-ass arms dude Rackham set you up with, right?"

"He had some sweet shit," Shades concedes, "but he lost perspective in the end. Made it too personal." And he continues with the story, but Comanche looks around, and thinks more on _too personal_. 

And on his phone, he sees Ridenhour had left him a message.

_iv. each foreclosure is a failure of belief_

Mama tells him to come for Sunday dinner, and to bring Hernan because she hadn't seen his face in months, and Hernan should know better and he'd better know he should know better.

Shades shows up in a suit that Mama won't look askance at, with a bouquet of daisies and an appetite for casserole. Comanche snickers while Mama pats Shades on the cheeks and bemoans how skinny he's got.

The rolls are still in the oven, so Mama shoos them into the living room to wait. Comanche sips sweet tea and looks at Shades, a memory of them at ten, at sixteen, at twenty-five, super-imposing over the present. He blinks and the triple-shadow disappears, and he sees Shades doing the same. "Like old times," Shades murmurs, trailing his fingers against the fringe of one of Mama's embroidered throw pillows. 

Comanche muses aloud, remembering the first time Shades came to Sunday dinner, how they communicated in Spanish and snatches of English, Mama startling him with her fluency. For a moment, he looks Shades in the eye, and they're there, together, as if--

Mama calls them to the table. They sit down , Shades across from Comanche, Mama holding their hands on either side and announces they'll be saying grace. 

Comanche reaches across the table to take Shades's hand. He closes his eyes, and Mama's voice is clear and sweet, and Shades tightens his fingers around his, and Comanche feels like everything's right.

**Author's Note:**

> Title, summary, and headings adapted from Karen Solie's "[I Let Love In](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/89527/i-let-love-in)."


End file.
